


people tell me i'm wrong (fuck 'em)

by bluerthanyou



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Chess, Enemies to Lovers, Hate Sex, Insults, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Tension, Tension, alex is just a lil brat attention whore, chess terminology that i'm not entirely sure of, george is a twat, im not a grandmaster pls dont come for me if i get smth wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:26:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28040850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluerthanyou/pseuds/bluerthanyou
Summary: Alex swallows. This was going to be harder than he thought, especially if he was going to be infantilised by every person in the building. “Who says I’m a beginner?”George smiles at him, folds his hands over one another. He gives Alex a look that sends rage through his veins. “Well, have you ever played in a tournament before?” He asks in an infuriatingly patronising tone. He’s clearly judging every move he makes.Alex wets drying lips. “No, but--”“So you’re a beginner.”or: chess.
Relationships: George Andrew/Alex Elmslie
Comments: 12
Kudos: 82





	people tell me i'm wrong (fuck 'em)

**Author's Note:**

> brainstormed this after watching the queens gambit (surprise, surprise) but only finished it tonight.
> 
> i can actually somewhat play chess but i have no clue on the terminology so please spare me if something is incorrect.
> 
> enjoy!

“Haven’t seen you here before,” a boy says, leaning against the wall opposite him, an air of judgement clouding his words. When Alex turns to look at the boy, he’s greeted by a frowning face, and dark curly hair. Confusion. “You new or what?”

Alex doesn’t say anything for a while, just looks through the crack of the door into the gymnasium. He doesn’t have time for people who probably have a lot of questions to ask him when he has such little time to practise.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

There’s a multitude of chairs and tables arranged perfectly over the oily shine of the gymnasium floor, each equipped with the familiar sixty-four-squared board that Alex has become so accustomed to.

The boy laughs. “Well, you tell them to put you with Laurier. She’ll go easy on you.” He leans over Alex and points through the crack in the door at the furthest table, where a woman with dark hair and a serious expression is shaking hands with another kid.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Alex says curtly and flops back against the wall.

“I’m Whitlock by the way,” he adds, holding out a hand. “My rating is 800, which...isn’t too shabby.”

Rating?

Alex blinks a few times before shaking Whitlock’s hand, cold and limp in his grasp. “Alex,” he manages through his confusion, holds the five pound note to his chest. When he looks back through the door of the gymnasium, he notices that a lot of the players have left their seats and are making their way towards the sign-in desk.

“Looks like we’re ready to go in,” Whitlock says, grins at him. “I hope you’re not a sore loser.” He’s joking, and sends a cheeky wink Alex’s way, but something in Alex’s gut is raging, and instead hopes that Whitlock loses his next game.

When they both reach the sign-in desk, two mean-looking women look up at them, both wearing the most pompous looking scarves that he’s ever seen. Rather intimidated by their presence, Alex stands up a little straighter in his scuffed trainers and hopes that they don’t judge him too harshly.

“Back again, Whitlock?” The furthest woman away says to his recently acquainted friend. “Who are you wanting today?”

Whitlock fishes for something in his deep pockets. “Put me with Webb, unless he’s already playing.” He finds it, pulls the five pound note from his pocket and slaps it on the desk in front of the women.

“What about you?” The other woman says, the one closer to him, and looks him up and down in a way that feels incredibly hostile. “You’re new.”

Alex swallows something heavy in his throat, before sliding the five pound note across the table to her. “That’s right.”

“Name. Rating,” she says shortly, hardly even looking up at him and instead focusing her gaze towards the screen of her computer. She’s done this all before; she doesn’t need to give a damn about some new kid wanting to play a few games and probably lose.

He blinks and shuffles. “I’m Alex, and I don’t have a rating,” he says, beginning to feel more and more regretful that he decided to even come here. It was a spur of the moment thing, him walking past a noticeboard and seeing an advertisement for a chess club. He’d noted it down on the back of his hand, reminded himself to show up that weekend.

“Surname,” the woman says, sterner, through pursed lips, almost seems to roll her eyes a little. “We go by surnames here.” She turns to her colleague beside her and they share an impatient look.

Whitlock gives him a sympathetic look which Alex appreciates, but he still feels like an idiot. “Elmslie,” he adds hastily, hoping that they don’t hate him too much for making an absolute fool out of himself on his very first day.

The woman purses her lips and searches something through on the computer, before finally taking off her glasses and looking up at Alex with a look of clear disdain. “We have five tables free. I personally recommend choosing Laurier if you’re a beginner, as she’ll go at your own pace.” She looks down at the computer screen, squints a little. “However we also have Carter, George, Fox and Francis if you want to play with them.”

Whitlock leans over to his side of the desk as if to help Alex out, and Alex can’t help but feel a little tired of him. “Carter’s good, but can be a little intimidating if you’re new.” He looks at Alex for a reaction before continuing. “Fox and Francis are both maniacs. They won’t let you out without a fight.”

Whitlock sighs, claps his hands down onto the desk as if in finality. “And for George...well, he’s our current champion and has been for nearly a year. He goes by his first name because he’s at the top. He really is one of the best chess-players I’ve ever known.” Alex looks at the two women sitting at the desk for some confirmation. “He’s absolutely ruthless, and will not save you at all.”

“Save George for one of the more experienced players,” one of them says to the other, eyebrows raised in a somewhat judgemental fashion. She then turns to him. “Don’t go wasting your money now, kid. Especially not here.”

Alex bites back a sharp comment, used to his mouth which gets him in trouble sometimes, especially when he says too much without any thought of its consequences beforehand. He pulls the money from his pocket, the brand new five pound note crisp in-between his fingers. “And what’s the prize if I beat George?”

Whitlock looks surprised at this, and so do both of the women behind the desk.

“Well,” she says. “Since he’s been champion, nobody ever has, so that would have to be a longer discussion. But it would be a lot of money.”

“It will be a waste of money,” Whitlock warns him. “Trust me, I did the same at the start. Thought I was good enough to go up against the big shots, and I got absolutely destroyed.”

Alex, in a spur of frustration, ignores everything that they had just said to him. He leans over the desk and puts down his note in front of the woman. “Put me with him. I don’t care.” A rush of adrenaline seeps through him as he realises that this is his first proper chess tournament ever, and he’s about to play with their current reigning champion. It could go horribly wrong in a very short amount of time, but Alex is not a quitter.

“Elmslie, you’re going to regret that,” Whitlock says. “I’m being dead serious, man.”

“Your game is ready, Whitlock,” the woman further away says, shuffling a deck of papers in her hand and sending an exasperated look towards her colleague. “Good luck.”

Whitlock gives Alex a final warning look before he’s heading away from the desk and towards one of the many small tables arranged over the floor. His shoes squeak as he leaves, and Alex presses his lips together.

“You beginners are all incredibly stupid,” the woman sighs. “But I can’t stop you.” She takes his money with a pointed glare. “I’ll see you back here when you lose. You’re Table 1. George is already seated.”

“Can’t wait,” Alex says simply before he’s turning on his heel and walking over the gymnasium floor to where the tables begin. Many people have started their game already, eyes focused on the board and not even looking up to see Alex weaving his way through the tables, looking for Table 1. Whitlock is already invested in his game with Webb, and as Alex looks at him, he captures the opposing player’s queen in a single movement that almost leaves Alex breathless. He knew the standard here was high but he didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.

When he finally finds Table 1, a blond-headed man looks up at him from where he’s seated, a frown settling over annoyingly symmetrical features. Alex doesn’t like to make preconceived decisions before he meets someone, but he had certainly expected George to look less boyish and more intimidating, as he was their reigning champion after all.

“Table 1?” Alex asks, holding his head high as his mother had taught him.

George looks him up and down for a few seconds before grinning to himself. “You’ve got the wrong table, kid.” He reaches out and adjusts one of the pawns which was veering off the edge of its square. “I don’t play beginners.” He says the last part more quietly, as if he’s repeated it countless times before.

Alex swallows. This was going to be harder than he thought, especially if he was going to be infantilised by every person in the building. “Who says I’m a beginner?”

George smiles at him, folds his hands over one another. He gives Alex a look that sends rage through his veins. “Well, have you ever played in a tournament before?” He asks in an infuriatingly patronising tone. He’s clearly judging every move he makes.

Alex wets drying lips. “No, but--”

“So you’re a beginner.”

Alex drops his bag down on the floor beside the chess-table, before taking a seat opposite George. He’s infuriated by this man. “Let’s play. I’ve given them my money.”

George tuts at him as if he’s a misbehaving dog. “You heard me. I’m not playing you. New people always want to play me, and they always lose. You’re just one out of many.” He runs a hand through messy hair. He’s done this before.

“I don’t want to disagree,” Alex says, folding his arms neatly to mirror George’s posture. “Let’s play.”

George thinks about it for a few seconds, and Alex takes the time to scan his appearance. His fingers are adorned with rings, great chunky ones at that. He wears a chain around his neck, and there’s a smudge of eyeliner around the corner of his eyelid, barely there, but enough to make Alex think.

“Fine, but it’s your money wasted,” George says, picking up a pawn of each colour and hiding them in each palm. “Your time wasted.”

“That’s fine.” Alex grins at him, and George sends him a disdainful gaze before holding out his two hands, each presumably hiding one black pawn and one white pawn. It decides which colour he is going to play as.

Alex thinks about it before he’s reaching over and tapping George’s left hand. White. That’s okay. He can start easily.

“How old are you anyway?” George asks him, putting the two pawns back in their places with an uncharacteristically delicate hand. “Can’t be older than sixteen.”

Alex blows out a laugh. “I’m eighteen.” He adjusts a few of his pieces so that they’re in the centre of their squares. “You can’t be much older.”

George purses pink lips and looks up at him under blue eyes. “Twenty two.”

“At your height? Unlucky,” Alex breathes, eyes flickering up to meet his own. George is pissed, and gives him a resounding glare before he’s focusing back down on the board. There’s nothing Alex loves more than teasing people who get on his nerves.

“Ready?” George says under his breath, ringed fingers hovering over the button on his timer. “You know you’re going to lose, right?”

“Dickhead,” Alex hisses. “What if you lose?”

George shrugs, seemingly unbothered. “I don’t lose,” he says, before pressing Alex’s timer. An insistent ticking rings in Alex’s ears as he realises that the game has begun.

Alex pulls out all of the stops. He brings both his centre pawns and his knights out in the first few moves, hoping to whatever God that there is that somehow he hasn’t completely misjudged the flyer he saw on that noticeboard. Hopes that he hasn’t fucked up by coming here.

George smiles in a grossly self-assured way, proceeds to remove one of Alex’s pawns with his first and second finger, delicate and learned as if he’s done this a million times before. Thinking about it, he probably has. He’s probably played everybody in the room, and he’s beaten them too. George has revelled in the satisfaction of winning every single game for a year. He’s victoriously shaken hands with his competitor with a grin that says it all countless times, and the fact that Alex is even playing against him is a terrifying thought. Five pounds isn’t a lot of money, but the act of losing money is something Alex regrets even setting himself up for.

It gets interesting in the middle of the game when Alex begins to attack George’s queen, a risky move in itself as he can see how easily George could take his singular remaining bishop. George tuts at him, easily swipes it away. He’s good. Insanely good. George thinks on his feet, doesn’t waste a second on his timer before his brain fast-forwards to the next move. He seems to have it all laid out in his brain.

And so Alex brings his queen forward and, in the open space, bravely takes George’s queen and sets it aside by the board. George is clearly surprised by this, clearly not used to anybody who takes the queen in a singular move like that.

George takes his queen in return, and Alex is a little gutted to have left her so vulnerable when she’s the most powerful piece, but George, in all his victorious smirking glory, has neglected to notice that his king is in trouble, isolated near the back of the board. Alex is no chess-champion, but his brain works in wonderful ways.

And then Alex does it, in a moment that seems to take every kind of sensible thought out of his brain. He hardly even thinks, yet at the same time his brain is on fire with all the possible moves that he could’ve done instead.

“Check,” he says firmly, nodding up at George. His finger leaves the recently placed bishop, a few moves away from checkmate. He’s backed George into a corner.

George looks visibly panicked, a sight which makes Alex giddy and feel the need to announce to everybody that he’s made a fool of their club’s reigning chess champion. But instead of being a dickhead, he bites down on his lip and just watches as George attempts to find his way out of check.

“You should resign,” Alex whispers lowly after a few minutes of pondering, as if to make sure nobody overhears that they’re actually talking during a chess game. “Be a man.”

George’s reaction is not pretty, and his gaze hardens, face suddenly overcome with displeasure. Alex is hyper-aware of George most definitely looking at his lips, and he’s on fire under George’s gaze. George is losing, and God if it doesn’t make him go crazy just to think about it.

Alex can feel everyone staring at them as the gymnasium stews in a shocked silence. Watching and wondering what move George is going to attempt to make, hoping that he can pull it out of the bag. They’re intrigued, and they’ve stopped their own games just to watch them with bated breath.

Alex doesn’t breathe when George reaches out with a delicate two fingers and lays his king down against the wooden board. “I resign,” he bites out in barely a whisper, teeth clenched. George has lost for the first time in a year.

Everybody is silent when George stands up and reaches a hand out across the table, signalling for them both to shake hands. It’s sportsmanship, and George is angry, and it comes across when his eyebrow furrows a little over his eyes. Alex loves it, and shakes his outstretched hand with triumph. Somebody starts to clap from across the gymnasium, yet Alex doesn’t turn to see who it is because he’s focused on the way George bites the corner of his lip and drifts his gaze away.

The clapping intensifies, and suddenly he’s being swarmed by a group of people who were previously on the other side of the hall. Whitlock is one of them, eyes wide in surprise as he tries to get to the front of the crowd. Alex feels a glimmer of pride as he realises that he proved him wrong.

The screen on the side of the gymnasium that lists the opponents and their scores has lit up again, and Alex watches as George’s name is no longer accompanied by a little crown symbol, and his own name gains that symbol. And when Alex looks back over the other side of the table to gauge his opponent’s reaction, the chair is empty and George has gone.

*

The gymnasium bathroom is empty apart from George, leaning up against the sink. His jaw is tight as he stares at his own reflection. Alex almost thinks he’s pretty but he waves his own thoughts away before he can get more hung up on why he feels so weird around George.

“Told you, didn’t I?” Alex says from the doorway, head high.

George doesn’t turn around and instead looks at him through the mirror, a messy dark blond strand, almost brown, falling into his eyes. “I suppose you came in here just to be a cunt?”

“Of course,” Alex says, jaw tightening as he presses his arm up to the wall. “Just wanted to knock you down a few pegs as you were so cocky beforehand.” He wants to climb inside George’s brain and find out what it is that makes him so self assured and such an asshole. He wants to hit him.

George shakes his head in disbelief, turning around from the sink just to look at him. His rings clink against the edge of the sink. “It was just a fluke, Elmslie. You won’t win again. I just wasn’t thinking about my king.”

“Isn’t that the point of chess?” Alex laughs, takes a few steps forward so that they’re opposite each other in the bathroom. “To guard your king? And you were thinkin’ about something else?”

George shakes his head, grins in some sort of disbelief as if he can’t believe his eyes. “You know, you’re bold to call me cocky when you come in here without a rating, beat me, and then proceed to insult me after the game.”

Alex shrugs, an eyebrow raised. He wants the upper hand, but he knows he can’t keep it for long, especially when George keeps looking at him like he’s speaking without words. “Maybe you’re just not as good at chess as you thought, George.”

George then sees red, because in barely a second he’s striding towards Alex and gripping the collar of his shirt, yanking him towards his face so they’re inches apart. George’s teeth are gritted, and he barely even raises his voice. “One whole year I remained unbeaten,” he says right up to the shell of Alex’s rapidly reddening ear. “And you had the fucking nerve to come in here and win the game with some stupid fluke.”

Alex can hear his own breath loud in his chest, can feel George’s against the side of his face. They’re too close for comfort, and Alex wants something. Needs something.

Alex, suddenly, finds no words in his mouth.

“Nothing to say?” George taunts, still gripping his shirt in one ringed hand. Then he’s spinning him around so he’s facing the grubby mirrors of the bathrooms, and Alex can see himself all pink-cheeked and speechless in George’s gasp. He must look unbelievably pathetic, yet something hot burns in his gut. “Can you see yourself, Elmslie?”

Alex doesn’t know what else to do apart from nod.

“Bet you like this,” George mutters in his ear. “You’ve gone all pink.”

Alex feels himself go pinker, and George laughs, self assured and cocky, and God, Alex can’t decide if he wants to hit him or kiss him. “Shut up,” Alex says bitterly, voice too high in the back of his throat.

“You’re not as brave now, are you?”

Alex struggles against George’s grip, and forces up words from his chest. “Sayin’ I’m not brave when you were the one starin’ at my lips the whole game and haven’t acted on it.”

Then George is dragging him by the shirt down to the shower-rooms where they’re further out of sight, hidden by a wall that obstructs the door. “Not my fault you came here looking so fucking pretty, is it?”

And then, in a flash, George is pressing their lips together, hard and insistent like they’ve been dancing around it for months rather than hours. He lets go of Alex’s shirt and instead grips onto the curve of his waist like it belongs to him, tightening his grip until Alex lets out a breathy whine that’s definitely in danger of being heard by everyone outside the bathroom.

“Jesus Christ,” George hisses inbetween ravenous kisses, free hand cupping the side of his face. “I hate you.”

He doesn’t. “Liar,” Alex breathes, and he can’t fathom how badly he wants it until he’s sinking onto his knees on the washroom floor, hands ghosting over the belt on George’s trousers like he’s craving it, like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted.

George nods at him in affirmation, gestures for Alex to undo his belt. Hands are then cold against his own as they guide Alex’s hands around George’s cock. “Fuck,” he groans, head falling back against the wall as Alex gives a few slow strokes, torturous. Like he wants to kill him.

George exhales harshly as Alex finally gets his mouth on him, and Alex can see he’s been wanting it as he reaches out and grips a handful of Alex’s too-long hair that he’s pushed back with a headband. Alex moans, long and high as George pulls his head down, forcing more of his cock into Alex’s throat. He knows George is revelling in the way Alex’s eyes are watering. “Good boy.”

Alex trembles at the words, and minutes later, his lips quiver around George’s cock when he comes, lips dark pink and swollen. George’s reaction is hard to work out, but there’s a glint in his eye that Alex finds himself chasing as George fixes himself up, buckles up his belt, fixes his dark-blond hair in the mirror. Alex clambers up from his knees, knowing that a nice pair of purple bruises will adorn his kneecaps tomorrow morning. It’s not anything to worry about, as he’s used to telling people that the bruises were from football practise.

“You gonna say sorry to me?” Alex says. “For bein’ a cunt?”

George shakes his head, head turning from the mirror to eye Alex. “Nope.” He straightens his dark shirt which is already crumpled. “Are you?”

Alex wets his lips with his tongue. “No.”

George turns around completely to face Alex. “Well, that’s your answer.” He picks up his bag from the hook on the wall and turns around to leave.

“Are you just gonna leave?” Alex says, feeling his headband askew on his head. He tries not to feel hurt that George is just going to leave after what just happened, but he’s just so stupidly sensitive that he almost tears up.

George nods, and just before he leaves, he walks over to Alex and fixes his headband with a delicate hand, now sitting neatly in his messy hair. “See you next week.” Something warm grows in Alex’s chest, and he looks up at George with a shyness that probably doesn’t go unnoticed.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave kudos and a comment if u enjoyed! it would mean a lot to me :)


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